Full Fathom Five
by VelocityGirl1980
Summary: Marian chooses the worst possible time to harangue Guy and a row ensues. However, what if it brings about just the smallest of changes in Guy's approach to her? What if he just stops trying so hard to win her affections?
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** When the thrill of the chase grows old, it's generally a good idea to slow down. So, what happens when Guy simply stops trying so hard to win over Marian? Part of me wishes this conversation really did happen, so I apologise if Guy seems out of character. But he's sick; poor thing.

Author's Note: I don't own this. Please don't sue me. I hope people enjoy the story, and reviews are appreciated. Thank you.

* * *

**The Love Sick Spaniel**

Marian's footsteps were heavy on the flagstones, the sound seemed to resonate through the very rafters of the Great Hall. The dull ache in Guy's temple throbbed to the beat of its pitiless tattoo. He glanced up from his place at the high table, where the day's paper work was spread out before him; all requiring his signature and seal. It was long past sunset, so adding to his problems, he found himself squinting through the flickering of a nimbus of candlelight. He bit at the tip of his gloved finger and pulled his hand free of its heavy constraint, all the better for kneading his tired eyes.

"Marian, it's late," he intoned without as much as an upward glance at her.

He sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the Sheriff had already retired for the night, leaving the tedium of bureaucracy to him alone. If he had been there, he and Marian would be like two angry, spitting hawks and, once she had flounced off in her customary huff, he'd have Vaisey's volcanic fall-out to deal with. He was never pretty; he was even further from prettiness when raving like a strumpet in a tantrum. A clue: yes!

Marian, meanwhile, stopped abruptly before the table and slapped a dog-eared square of parchment down on top of the decree he had been on the cusp of signing on the Sheriff's behalf. Despite it being Marian, his annoyance flared dangerously as he snatched the parchment up and let it drop to one side.

"Aren't you even going to look at it?" she demanded, foot tapping gratingly against the floor in impatience.

She cast a long, hands-on-hips shadow across his table; like a school master surveying the unsatisfactory work of a lazy pupil. He didn't appreciate the condescension and found himself taking a deep, calming breath before explaining the sad realities of life to her.

"Contrary to popular belief, Marian, I cannot simply drop everything to accommodate every one of your whims, caprices and misguided, philanthropic missions," he flatly stated, careful to keep his tone even. "I hate to burst your bubble, but the whole world – nay! not even Nottingham – revolves around you."

His raised his tired eyes in time to see her turning a vicious shade of red; her expression scandalised. Carefully, he kept his own expression in check and maintained a neutral blankness. He had made his point and he wasn't about to back down and lose face, now. All he eventually did was arch an eyebrow, a silent invitation for her to air whatever grievance had brought her barging through his private space, again.

"Whims … Caprices …" her mouth formed the words, but the sound barely came out.

Marian let her hands fall limp at her sides, she shifted from one foot to the other; all the while staring at him agape. As he suspected, she had expected him to fall at her silk slippered feet and roll over like a good little love-struck Spaniel. Guy leaned back in his seat and admired her righteous indignation. He was trying to work out what annoyed her more: his refusal to look at that notice, or the fact that he wasn't verbally pole-vaulting the bar she loved to set so high for him – only to mock him when he fell far short.

However, he loved her. God knew how he loved her. But the squirming pain in his belly; the throbbing ache in his head that promised to blossom into a full-blown migraine, set the stoppers on his need for her approval. The grinding of his bones, like he was being slowly processed through a mill wheel, were pushing him to the edge of reason.

"Well, it's good to know what you really think of me, Sir Guy," she states, adroit and waspish. "Pity about all that money you wasted when trying to buy my affections. Still, at least the Sheriff can have you all to himself, now. I hope the two of you will be very happy together."

It sounded to him like a parting shot, yet Marian remained. Her words had had the desired effect and his temper was simmering close to boiling point. But, he fortified his own resolve and became even more determined not to show the effect she was really having on him. He had exposed his soul to her once too often, and been burned for his efforts.

His response is, once again, measured.

"The Sheriff maybe playing on the wrong side of sanity, but at least I've always known where I stand with him," he said, one corner of his mouth twitching into a lopsided smile. "Believe me, Marian, that doesn't reflect well on your own grasp of personal relationships."

The tables had turned and, for the first time ever, he had got her blood up. Literally, if the colour in her face was anything to go by. She huffed silently, anger choking her usual self-assured retorts. At her side, her right kept balling into a fist and out again, like she longed to strike him. His lack of anger only raised her own ire. The truth was, he felt like he died last week and hadn't yet got the wit to stiffen.

"So being the Sheriff's lapdog-" she raged, but cut herself off as though struggling to find some better come-back. "You spineless… thing!"

Recognising that this little sparring match could last all night, Guy conceded defeat of a sort. He gathered up his papers, packed them into a nearby sheaf and made to leave. But not before returning Marian's paper to her: "Yours, I believe."

With that, he turned and left. However, Marian's footsteps fell in time to his own as soon as it registered that he wasn't hanging around waiting for her.

"Just you wait there, Guy of Gisbourne!" her shrill voice followed him as he ducked under the low, side door that led to the private chambers. "You will face up to what is happening in this County!"

Guy stopped, framed by the door, and rolled his eyes. Unless he looked at the latest outrage, she would not leave him be. He would not get the peaceful darkness that he currently craved. When he turned to face her, she had her imploring face on.

"Guy, please, just look at what they're doing now," she said, holding up the paper as if it were an offering to a saint.

He sighed deeply, snatching it up and holding it just inches from his face. His eyesight seemed to be getting worse, or was it just the awful lighting in the passages of Nottingham Castle? He couldn't tell; but he could tell that this was a decree of Prince John's. What did she expect him to do about it? He was hardly circulating in the same social circles as the Prince.

He cannot help a small laugh. "Marian, you overreach my grasp even more than I do."

"But, Guy-"

"Marian, no!" he shot back, cutting her off as his temper finally boiled over. However, he calmed himself before adding to his outburst. "I am sick and exhausted. Please, just leave me be; for tonight, at the least."

To emphasise the point, he turned his back again and left her standing in the passageway. He could feel her gaze boring into him until he vanished out of her sight. He yearned to look back, if only to see her one final time. For surely she would not deign to look twice at him, now. But he had tried and tried. He would have bled himself dry for her. He would have died for her. The fact that he still would, without even a second's thought, was only more salt in his many and varied wounds.

He found his chambers in near darkness. The fire had long ago been reduced to embers and only a single, tallow fat candle still burned in its stand. He dropped his sheaf of papers on an occasional table and flopped down on his bed. He only meant to lie down long enough to catch his breath, which suddenly felt short and rasping. He thought that the cold alone would be enough to keep him anchored to the right side of consciousness.

* * *

Evidently, he was wrong about that. When he awoke, the moon was high in the sky and his clothes were clinging to his clammy skin. Saliva flooded his jaw; the five second warning before vomiting violently into the nearest receptacle. A vase, given to him by his father. How fitting then, that he should be heaving his disease into it now. After he had spat the bitter residue out of his mouth, he fell back against the mattress again. Breathless and sweating; he ached all over like his limbs were on fire.

He looked up at the canopy above his bed, an interweaving pattern of vine leaves and honeysuckle splayed out in livid green detail. Not that he could see it well in the now guttering candle, the acrid smell of the burning fat that now filled the air. It was enough to make him heave again, and carry on heaving until he'd disgorged everything he'd eaten that month – or so it seemed. He had been ill before, of course. But not like this. With an audible groan, he crawled back on to his bed. After a brief struggle with his boots, he managed to kick them off by the spurs. However, that was all he could manage. His breeches and shirt remained in place as he simply rolled the Turkey Quilt over himself. Then, he slipped beneath the deep, dark tide of sleep without resistance.

* * *

The sounds were carried to him in waves. One voice, dimly recognisable as Allan A Dale; the other shrill and, unmistakably, Marian. He hadn't the strength to open his eyes; let alone go out there and berate them into silence. So there he lay, shrouded in a sweat soaked quilt, letting the argument wash over him.

"I'm not lying, Marian, I swear," Allan protested valiantly, but he didn't stand a chance against Marian in full force. "He's really ill, this time. The servants couldn't wake him up or anything."

Her laughter was cutting. "You wouldn't know the truth if it jumped out at you naked from behind the bushes, Allan. Now go and get Guy this instant, or I'll break his door down myself."

Guy moaned, it was meant to be an actual word. But his powers of speech appeared to have deserted him. As such, he made no effort at communication when his door was thrown open. He barely managed to move his eyes to see Marian, standing over his bed, her mouth a perfect "O".

"Guy!" she eventually gasped, as if she'd only just realised it was him.

At least Allan was triumphant. "I hate to say I told you so; but I did tell you so."

She still had her paper, the one he barely recalled from the night before. However, it occurred to him then that it could be important after all.

"Guy, I-" she stammered from the doorway. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise-"

Was that an apology? From Marian? He put it down to his raging fever; rolled over painfully and dropped back into a tormented sleep.


	2. A Helping Hand

**Author's Note:** thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story, your feedback means a lot. The usual disclaimers apply and I own none of this. I wasn't originally intending to update, but there's another character I really want to experiment with (alongside Marian), so I apologise if her addition seems predictable. Anyway, please enjoy and reviews would be welcome.

* * *

**Chapter Two: A Helping Hand**

'Waking up' was the wrong word for what Guy did, late that afternoon. It was more the case that he had 'regained consciousness' and found himself, by happy coincidence, properly inserted into his own bed; in his own nightshirt. He pushed back the quilt that someone had thrown over him, a feeble effort to relieve the stifling heat that had him perspiring heavily. The effort cost him dearly and, even though free of his bindings, he lacked the strength to sit up properly. Instead, he had to extend one leg and swipe his foot at the hangings that shrouded his tester bed. The velvet curtains parted a fraction, just enough to give him an opening to rest of his chambers.

The fire was stoked to the point of frenzied inferno; shutters were drawn over the windows, blocking out what remained of the daylight and bushels of cleansing herbs were stacked by the hearth. Their pungent smoke was already thick in the air; it was making his sensitive eyes water. The old rushes had been swept up and replaced afresh, some still green in hue. The heat would soon see to that.

Ignoring the grinding protestations of his whole body, he gripped the headboard and used it to lever himself upwards. His linen sheet wound between his legs, pulled free of the mattress, creating a mess of bedding at his feet. He willed himself to get up; to find the strength from somewhere. But it wasn't happening. All he could do was let his head fall back against the oak of the rail and listen to sounds of the outside world drifting in.

After half an hour of listening to servants shuffling to and fro, and of the rhythmic tramping of the guards outside, a determined foot closes in his door. Guy had been about to doze off when it sounded like his door was kicked open. He sat suddenly bolt upright out of pure shock as the bed hangings were thrust fully aside, revealing the Sheriff. Thunderous and twisted as ever, he looked at Guy with an ill-suppressed grimace.

Guy, for his part, can only fall back into place and turn his tired eyes to Vaisey and wait for whatever was coming.

"Oh! Gisbourne," he sighs, much more calmly than Guy had expected. "Look where she's got you now?"

He could guess at where the Sheriff was going with his opening missive, but he didn't want to make it easy for him. "What're you talking about?"

"What'd you think?" said Vaisey, the question a rhetorical one. "Moping around after our mutual Lady Leper friend has finally cracked you. Look at you! Lying there caked in your own sick and sweat. You smell like you've just crawled out of the Pit Street midden, my friend."

Vaisey removed one grasping hand from the velvet hangings and landed a hearty thump on Guy's shoulder, sending shockwaves of pain coursing through his whole torso. Pride alone prevented Guy from wincing. He took a deep breath and turned the other way, just to avoid seeing the triumphant glitter in the Sheriff's eyes.

For a moment, the Sheriff turned almost normal. "So, what is it? It's not contagious, is it?"

Even as the thought occurred to him, he had begun to back away. Guy's lip twitches, a laugh choked down. The gift that keeps on giving and if the Sheriff does get it, he will remember to pay him a visit too.

"I'm sure I'm just the lucky one," replied Guy, his tone flat and facetious. He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "If you want to declare a quarantine in some God forsaken district of the town then go ahead. At least there'll be a grain of truth in it, this time. Someone actually is sick."

Vaisey looked almost pleased with the suggestion. Guy could tell he was thinking about it, he was massaging his chin, pacing up and down; four steps forwards, four steps back. It was beginning to shred his nerves. Things were quite bad enough, already. The last thing Guy wanted was the human brimstone-bomb adding to his illness.

"I'm tired, My Lord," he said, his voice low, hoping the other man would take the hint.

Vaisey stopped pacing, looked at Guy as though he'd forgotten he was there. "Don't take forever, Gisbourne. Replacing you at this late stage would be a pain in the arse."

Guy breathed a sigh of relief as the Sheriff strode from the room, letting the door slam behind him. He listened, appreciating the sound of his master's footsteps receding. However, they stopped short of the staircase. There was a brief pause, followed by the sound of the Sheriff's voice angrily berating some unknown unfortunate.

"You said to me, almost dead. I thought he was almost dead!" It was hard to tell if he was disappointed or not.

The unfortunate on the receiving end sounded like Allan A Dale. "Almost being the operative word in that sentence, my lord." Only the former outlaw would be brave and foolish enough to answer back. "Technically speaking, he is looking a tad under the weather right now."

A tad under the weather didn't necessarily equate to being 'almost dead' in Guy's mind, but he let Allan have free reign over his own interpretations of the situation.

"Oh, la-di-da!" the retorted with another of his favourite lines. "Get that girl back here to look after him. But, whatever you do, don't let that other Leper creature within ten feet of his door. She's the one who's got him like this. Her!"

He meant Marian, of course. He always brought the subject of lepers up at opportune moments, just to remind him of who he's supposed to thinking of his father, now. Sometimes, he thought to resent it. But at that moment, with the strength ebbing away from him, all he could do use what was left of it to drown out the world and fall asleep.

* * *

Robin looked sceptical. "Gisbourne's sick?" he asked, looking back at Marian with one eye-brow raised. Then, he sighed and gesticulated to the canopy of the forest. "He's probably plotting his next adventure to the Holy Land!"

"Oh! Not this again, Robin," retorted Marian. "I've seen him with my own two eyes. He IS sick. In fact, he's in a bad way."

They were standing some way off from the others. However, the camp was clearly visible down the steep incline they had met atop. She could see Much huddled over the camp fire, striking hopelessly at a wet flint to get the cooking on the go. Little John was putting his herculean strength to good use and chopping wood for the, as yet, future fire. Will and Djaq were perched on a fallen log, deep in conversation; lost to everyone else in each other's company. Once, he said he loved her. But nothing had happened since. Marian watched them for a moment, ignoring Robin's moment of mild triumph. She could tell his mind was running at a sprint to wring some advantage for himself from Guy's illness.

"So who's in charge up there now?" he asked.

Marian shrugged. "I don't know," she replied, turning back to look at him. "Guy is rather disinclined to speak to me, at the moment."

Robin frowned. "I thought you said he was at death's door?"

She found herself reliving her last proper meeting with Guy. The notice she had given him; the lure that was supposed to lead his men into a trap. It had been Robin's idea, a way to fleece the treasury again. Sometimes, she would feel a flutter of guilt, even if the proceeds did go to the poor and needy.

"He is, but we fell out. He wasn't interested in the notice, and he wasn't interested in seeing me," she admitted. "If that's the case, I've lost my leverage over him. You know that, don't you? I will be useless to you."

His expression softened as he placed a hand gently on her forearm. "You'll never be useless to me," he said, looking her directly in the eye. "Have I not been clear enough? I want you here, in the forest, with me and the gang. If Guy's finally moved on, then what's keeping you there?"

He knew the answer already, and she could see he was struggling not to roll his eyes. Nevertheless, she had to say it. "My father. Robin, he needs me. He's an old man."

Robin withdrew his hand from her arm, running it through his hair instead, making it stick up at odd angles. "And you need him," he replied in an undertone. "Without him your lexicon of excuses to stay safe in your own little world would run dry. Without him, you would be forced to make a choice in life."

His voice was raised, drawing the attention of some of the others in the camp below. So Marian checked her tone before she made an answer. "That is not fair, Robin," she said, her tone failed to vent her anger. "You have no ties; no responsibilities. You have no understanding of those that do."

He made no answer; she knew he couldn't. He turned away from her, showing her his back – another indication that she had the upper-hand in their latest spat. It dismayed her that she had managed to anger the two men in her life other than Sir Edward, but juggling the wildly conflicting needs of all them was beginning to take its toll. Sometimes, it was like being caught between a rock, a hard place and a sheer, one hundred foot drop to certain death.

Robin slowly turned to look back at her, a sidelong glance from the tail of his eye. "Unless there's someone else keeping you there."

The insinuation in his tone was enough to break her. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What was it you once said?" he asked, taking a step closer to her. "Guy has 'qualities'".

She decided not to dignify that with comment. Instead, Marian rolled her eyes and pushed her way past him on the path back to the Castle. It was getting dark and soon Nottingham would be locking its gates for the night. Unless she wanted to spend a chilly evening under the stars, she knew she would have get a move on. She could hear him calling after her; hasty apologies, entreaties for her return. But too much had been said, and she needed to clear her head.

In one hand, she had Robin: how could she love someone and want to strangle him at the same time? That was despite him being the kindest, gentlest soul she knew. In the other hand, she had Guy: how could she hate someone so much, yet not bring herself to leave him? She lost her temper with Robin because he had revealed a truth about her that she could never openly admit – not even to herself. She didn't leave the Castle, because Guy drew her back. A magnetic pull; she was a moth darting close to the flames, driven by the excitement of the threat of danger. Guy had something that Robin could never have, nor would ever want: that edge; that danger; that visceral thrill.

She reached the walls of the town shortly before sundown and paused to rest. The fortified walls loomed over her, casting a long shadow made jagged by the uneven surface of the outlying fields. There she let herself slump against the sandstone; let the tears well in her eyes and wept out of sheer confusion and frustration. Every new day seemed to bring with it an impossible range of human emotions.

* * *

Guy awoke with a start, as though he'd just escaped a nightmare. But his sleep had been peaceful, if a little broken. What had startled him so savagely from sleep, was the sound of his chamber door being slammed shut. Fearing the Sheriff, he rolled over again and started to play dead. When the hangings around his bed were thrown open, he squeezed his eyes painfully shut and refused to give in to the flood of light that entered his world. However it was, and Vaisey was still prime suspect, was hovering over him expectantly.

"Sir Guy!"

His heartbeat raced and relief washed over him. The voice was shrill, female and sing-song. Far too sing-song for that hour of the morning; that level of sickness that he was still at. He allowed one eye to drift open and painfully twisted his head around to see the newcomer. She was young – late teens and no more. She had a wild mane of blond hair, all in curls that cascaded over her shoulders. Blue eyes and pale skin; a rosebud mouth, pretty and pink. She was smiling.

"Wakey, wakey!" she trilled down at him, then turned and bounced away from his bed, busying herself with chores he could not see. "D'you know what, Sir Guy, I really thought you were a gonner for a minute there. So I'm quite relieved to see you awake, at last. My Dad said to me, I'd never be able to hold down a job on my own and I so wanted to prove him wrong. Then, it seemed like you were on your way out and I'd have to eat my words. But does it count if you're new employer dies? I don't think so, personally. I mean, it's not my fault you nearly died, is it? But my Dad wouldn't see it that way. He's so unreasonable! Just like all stupid men. But, anyway, my Dad also said to me…"

Stunned, like a deer in the crossbow's sight, Guy let the wall of chatter crash over him – he's powerless to stop it. The girl talked ten to the dozen, changing subject mid-sentence and without even pausing for breath. All while achieving an array of tasks. When she drew back from the fire, the flames were leaping in the hearth. She leapt deftly up onto furniture, mindless of its value and suitability, to knock ancient cobwebs from the far corners of the ceiling. She spins around once, and by the time she spins away, the candelabra had a fresh set of beeswax candles in place. All the while, she chatters away happily, at him rather than to him.

The blur of frenetic activity, this force of nature, stopped suddenly. Standing in the middle of the room, hands on hips, she regarded Guy as though he were some sweet curiosity in the local menagerie. "Ready for breakfast?"

It took Guy a full minute to realise that she'd asked him a question. Blinking through the confusion, he gave his head a shake. It was too soon for food, his stomach churned at the very thought of it.

The young lady is unimpressed. "Men!" she gasps, hands still on hips. She then resumes lecturing him. "You've got to eat. Especially now you're ill. If you don't eat, you'll waste away. Now, do you know what my Dad would say..."

She lost him again. He dove down deep into his own thoughts, so much so that by the time he became aware of the world around him again, she had stopped talking. In the hour or so since her arrival, he'd almost forgotten what silence sounded like. He found this silence peculiar, following as it did, a storm of chatter from the girl. He hauled himself up again, ignoring his pain and her looks of disapproval, so he could ask her name. Something she had neglected to mention among everything else.

He went to open his mouth, but found his words cut off by the door opening. They both jerked their heads around at the abrupt intrusion to see Marian looking thunderous on the threshold of the chamber. Impervious to the new girl, Marian's eye is fixed on him.

"Guy, why on earth did Allan A Dale try to stop me coming in here?" she demanded, drawing a chair up to his bedside and taking her place in it.

When he didn't answer, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and finally became aware of the third presence in the room. Her face darkened into a frown. "Who's that?"

As thought unaware of the increasing tension in the room, the girl merely smiled a little wider. "Hello there," she chirruped. "My name's Meg."

The three of them; Guy from his bed, Marian at his side and Meg in the middle of the room with a dirty rag hanging limp from her hand, all looked from one to the other. Meg still smiling, like a soldier in face of the enemy; Guy pensive, waiting for the claws to come out and Marian flummoxed. Awkward barely covered it.


End file.
